The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
by syfygal
Summary: Prompt Game - request your own story. Chapter one - House Call: Slight AU to 1 x 02 – The Blind Banker: John hears the scuffle in the home of Soo Lin Yao and breaks the door down to find Sherlock nearly unconscious from strangulation. Further injuries make themselves known due to the struggle. Review or PM prompt requests. The Game is On!
1. 1 - House Call

_**A/N:**_ **This is my first foray into the** _ **Sherlock**_ **fandom and I would like to see how many prompts I get to keep this going! All requests (other than slash) are accepted. I'll start it off to get the ball rolling – review or PM your prompts to me and I will fulfil them to the best of my ability.**

 **The Game, my friends, is on!**

 **THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES**

 **RATED: T**

 **CHARACTERS: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson**

 **WARNINGS: Mild violence**

 **GENRE: Hurt/Comfort & Friendship **

_Slight AU to 1 x 02 – The Blind Banker: John hears the scuffle in the home of Soo Lin Yao and breaks the door down to find Sherlock unconscious from strangulation. Further injuries make themselves known due to the fight_

* * *

 **House Call  
**

 _Clothes, slightly damp_ – Sherlock gives the whites a sniff and screws his nose up at the smell. _Mildew – the clothes were washed but Soo Lin must've left before the load was finished._

The doorbell rings and Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes.

'Do you think maybe you could let me in this time?' John calls, his voice muffled by the front door.

The consulting detective continues his exploration of the house.

 _Milk – expired. 3 days, possibly four._

'Could you please stop doing this to me please?' The doctor's voice reaches his ears, clearer than before.

 _He must be calling through the mail slot._ Sherlock thinks distractedly.

'I'm not the first.' He calls to John, by way of response.

'What?'

Frustrated, Sherlock raises his voice. 'Somebody's been in here before me!'

Obviously not loudly enough, the ex-soldier asks for clarification. _Minor hearing damage – gun fire and explosive_ s.

The detective doesn't make a third attempt.

Instead, he takes notes aloud. 'Size eight feet…small, but athletic.' He stands, stepping into the bedroom, his quick eyes scanning, swallowing every detail. He notices a framed photograph on the nightstand. It's old and the glass is marked – three fingers, like a caress.

'Smeared…strong hands – our acrobat.'

Sherlock frowns, because something has only just occurred to him. 'Why didn't he close the window when he left-' he pauses, because for the world's best (and only) Consulting Detective, he has been incredibly, _incredibly_ – 'Ohh stupid, _stupid_ …obvious ; He's still here…'

He looks around again, stepping cautiously toward the oriental change screen – quite an exquisite piece but wholly unnecessary for one who lives alone. He can still hear Watson yammering on outside as he reaches forward to move the partition aside, although not really expecting much because it's such a glaringly obvious hiding place and the killer is far, _far_ too clever, but still it doesn't hurt to eliminate all possibilities.

He pulls it aside quickly, and this guy is even better than Sherlock initially deduced, because now there is something around his throat, tightening and dragging him to the ground. He lets out a strangled yell as the fabric is pulled tighter still. He's panicking now, _really_ panicking – because this man has absolutely no issues with killing innocent people. Sherlock pulls weakly at the fabric – _noose_ – his over active brain supplies unhelpfully, and as he struggles, his kidney is very painfully introduced to a very solid knee cap.

What little breath that remains is shoved from his lungs, and his vision is going gray at the edges.

'J-John!' He gargles, the movement of speaking tightening the fabric further. His attacked lets go with one hand, but somehow manages to keep the deadly pressure against his throat.

The blood is rushing to his head now, it's like a hurricane in his ears – but all other sound is ebbing away. His face feels hot and Sherlock is vaguely aware of a gloved fist slamming into his side over and over. An unnecessary action, really, given that the likelihood of his death was increasing by the second. He's really starting to regret not letting the doctor in, because he could really use some back up.

Something snaps – he feels the searing pain in his chest and unconsciousness is starting to look a lot closer.

'Joh-JOHN!' He tries again, his legs kicking feebly. The fist that just snapped three – _god_ – four of his ribs slams into his face with such force that his head bounces on the floor.

 _Stay conscious…_ the gray has turned to black now and all he can hear is the sound of his heart slowing and…

His eyes slip closed, limbs weakening – death is close. Lips are numb; fingers bloodless…wood splintering….

It takes him far too long to process the absence of his attacker, because the fabric – _noose_ – has been tied tight. He manages to open his eyes, very slowly. The masked man has been replaced by a different face, a friendly one with worried eyes and a furrowed brow.

Small, but talented hands fumble at the intricate knot that prevents him from breathing. Sherlock lifts a leaden arm and grasps weakly at that black jacket and the stupid sweater vest and _why_ in God's name is he wearing a tie?

'J-hn,' he gasps, tears of strain leaking. He can't hold it – his eyes roll back again…

Then, miraculously, the pressure is gone – sound returns with a sonic boom and John, dear Doctor Watson is both calm and panicked in the same breath.

'Sherlock – _Christ!_ You sodding git! Breathe!' He orders – he was a Captain, so he is very good at giving them. The Detective complies and is dragging in oxygen like it's a drug, but dear _God_ it hurts.

He gags, and coughs deeply – jarring his oxygen deprived lungs and the damaged ribs that are scratching against them.

'Easy, _easy_ does it,' John switches tone abruptly, soothing and gentle. How long have they been living together now? Surely long enough to make the stroke of fingers against his brow acceptable…

Sherlock winces as he shifts, coherence slowly returning as John removes his scarf – frowning deeply as his fingers brush the already darkened skin. That was awfully, _terribly_ close.

'J-John,' He manages a bit better now, allowing the Doctor to assist him into a seated position.

'I'm here Sherlock-' The detective sways, the change in position causing the room to spin. 'Shit, mate – you need a hospital. I'm calling an Ambulance.'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'You-you'll do…' He wraps an arm around his damaged ribs and the Doctor tuts impatiently.

'Let me take a quick look and _I'll_ decide whether or not you need a hospital.'

John shifts the Belfast coat and lifts the white button down Sherlock is wearing, wincing at the bruising on his side – which is almost as prominent as the ring around his neck. He presses down and feels this shift in the bone, trying to ignore the sharp intake of breath and the pained grunt that follows.

'Damn it, Sherlock – I don't feel comfortable skipping the hospital. One wrong move and you'll puncture a lung,'

The Detective shakes his head again, and attempts to stand – but he was so close to dying, and the bloody _pain_ in his chest is excruciating.

Just before he checks out, he hears John calling his name frantically.

* * *

He takes a shallow breath, lids trembling as he slowly wakes – the Mind Palace is a horrible broken place at the moment and Sherlock can't stand it a moment longer.

Throat tickling, he coughs and immediately regrets it – the pain is fire, and he needs something to extinguish it.

He hears a rustling from nearby and a warm hand rests on his brow.

'Sherlock – are you awake? Can you hear me?' It's John – and his asking stupid questions again.

' _Obviously_ ,' he grounds out through clenched teeth as he opens his eyes. Surprisingly, he's situated on the couch at Baker Street, not in a hospital bed at St Bart's.

'What do you need?' The Doctor asks patiently.

'Bloody _hell_ – something for the pain, _if_ you can manage,' he bites out, expecting the Doctor to flinch.

John just smiles, and produces a syringe – it looks like the good stuff.

Without a word, and just a little pinch later, Sherlock is feeling much better and quietly wondering if he stole it from St Bart's the last time they were there.

Sherlock manages to mumble his thanks to John, before slipping back under.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed! I can always do a part two or come back to it later – it's your call! Please drop a review if you'd like to see more!**


	2. 2 - Caring is not an advantage - Part 1

_**A/N:**_ **Thank you to those who Messaged, Reviewed and Favorited! This first prompt goes to HalfBloodPrincess110, who has requested a hurt or sick Sherlock being taken care of by Mycroft. Please forgive any OOC behaviour; I'm anticipating that the elder Holmes is going to be challenge to write!**

 **THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES**

 **RATED: T**

 **CHARACTERS: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes and Doctor Watson**

 **WARNINGS: Mild to Moderate Violence, descriptive mentions of injury**

 **GENRE: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship & Family**

 _Set between The Great Game & A Scandal in Belgravia – it is a good thing that Mycroft decided to invest in a rather sophisticated surveillance system at 221B, or he may be too late in saving his younger brother's life…_

* * *

 **Caring is** _ **not**_ **an advantage – Part 1**

Mycroft Holmes is quite far from what one would describe as a _sentimental_ man; caring is not an advantage after all. He prided himself in being emotionally detached, especially when it came to his rather intrepid younger brother – gallivanting around London after criminals like a dog with a bone. That being said, there have been certain… _circumstances_ , in which Mycroft Holmes felt the distantly familiar twisting in his gut that indicated panic.

He utterly loathed these occasions, but it would seem that, despite the sibling's constant animosity towards one another, Sherlock still had a rather irritating knack of, for want of a better description, scaring the utter _piss_ out of his older brother.

Watching the HD surveillance feed, streaming live from 221B – Mycroft felt his chest tighten considerably and deducted that this would be one such occasion where he would allow himself to _feel_. Driven by boredom, and the nagging feeling that something was going to go wrong, the elder Holmes had connected to the feed, only to find the apartment disturbingly quiet for such a late hour. Knowing full well that Doctor Watson was out of town visiting his family, logically speaking, the activity within 221B should have only diminished by half. His brother's unsociable behaviour automatically ruled out the possibility that he was at a pub, or some other communal cesspit – which, by deductive reasoning, left only one possibility. He had been out wrangling criminals and _something_ was hindering his return. It was not even a minute after Mycroft had come to this conclusion that the tiny microphone, hidden within that _ridiculous_ skull Sherlock insisted on keeping, picked up the distinct sound of footsteps on the stairs. The elder Holmes turned the volume up all the way and listened intently to the sounds.

 _Thud, scrape…another thud._ A leg injury, then – coupled by extreme exhaustion. Mycroft unconsciously gripped the arms of his chair with clawed fingers and leant closer to the screen as the door creaked open.

Sherlock stumbled through, almost drunkenly and the elder brother, the one who never cared or expressed any kind of sentimental emotion, felt the blood drain from his face as he fumbled for his phone.

Brow furrowed as he watched his younger brother retch into the carpet, he thumbed through the contacts on his phone and typed a frantic message to the one person that Sherlock would tolerate treatment from.

 **Doctor Watson, urgent attendance required 221B. Come Immediately - MH**

Pocketing his phone, Mycroft glanced at the screen and almost wished the quality of the video was not quite so high. Calming himself, for he was indeed _shaking_ , he phoned the chauffer to get the car ready and unlocked the safe under his mahogany desk. Within it laid quite an extensive surgical First Aid Kit – almost wholly untouched, thankfully – and it was at this point, his phone rang.

 _Doctor John Watson_ the caller ID read, and Mycroft accepted the call immediately, although somewhat irritated. He needed to get to Baker Street, _now._

' _What's going on Mycroft?'_ Doctor Watson asked groggily, suggesting his SMS had woken the man. Hand still shaking, the elder Holmes lifted the kit, nudged the door to his office open with a shoulder and took a steadying breath.

'My stupid brother has gotten himself hurt. _Again._ ' He tried to keep his voice indifferent and uncaring as the Chauffeur took the kit and opened the front door for him. 'How long will it take you to get back to Baker Street?'

There was silence on the other end before a deep breath and –

' _How bad is it and why haven't you called an ambulance?'_ The Doctor asked, slightly more awake now, Mycroft assumed.

The older brother clenched his jaw. 'Hospital is out of the question, you know what he's like. I wanted to get your opinion before resorting to such measures…'

Another silence - which indicated to Mycroft that the Doctor was waiting for an answer to his other question. He sighed and decided it was high time to swallow his pride.

'It is bad enough that I feel it necessary to go over there and assess the situation, now Doctor, _how bloody long_?'

John, over two hours away, almost dropped his phone – because in Mycroft's very peculiar way, he had just admitted that he was scared absolutely _shitless_ , and if that didn't get his arse into gear – nothing would.

' _Two hours, maybe three. Call me when you get there so I know the situation_.'

Mycroft didn't respond as his driver closed the door, he simply hung up the phone and directed him to 221B Baker Street.

* * *

The car had barely rolled to a stop outside 221B, when Mycroft Holmes – heart pounding and panicking mildly despite outward appearances – stepped from the car. It was something he had not felt in quite some time, the fraternal urge to protect and comfort, and as hard as he tried to push it aside to make room for the more favorable clinical approach, it would seem that his heart was going to win this argument. He quickly handed the chauffeur a list of things that would be required for the Doctor's arrival and without waiting for the car to disappear into the traffic, pulled the spare key from around his neck and unlocked the door with one hand.

Still clutching the somewhat cumbersome kit, Mycroft abandoned his usually sedate pace and bound up the stairs two at a time.

The scene that greeted him when he opened the door was equally as unpleasant as what he had witnessed via surveillance – if not more so, for Mycroft was an _extremely_ intelligent individual and knew that all that blood staining the beige carpet belonged _inside_ of his dear brother. A brother that was nowhere in sight.

Mycroft dropped the kit, eyes roving the dim apartment until they landed on the red hand prints, staining the walls like a macabre trail, leading to the bathroom.

Hands now positively _quaking_ , Mycroft followed the breadcrumbs – noting the light on in the bathroom and the unmistakable sound of water running. The doorknob was slick with blood and the elder Holmes held back a disgusted grimace as he pushed the door open.

His dear, _stupid,_ brother was propped against the bathtub, ungainly long legs splayed out before him and the _blood_. There seemed to be no end to the swirls of red – up to his wrists like a crimson glove, coating his lips and chin – white shirt _ruined._ Yet, he was conscious – and by the looks of it, in absolute agony.

Mycroft didn't even register the pain in his knees when he fell to them, at his brother's side. Sherlock flinched at the sudden intrusion and then groaned at the additional pain it caused. Sea-green eyes flicked upwards to identify the intruder and widened slightly upon seeing the elder Holmes.

'What on Earth have you gotten into, Brother mine?' He asked with a softness he was not accustomed to.

Mycroft did not wait for an answer – far too concerned now about the amount of blood leaking out of his brother. _Jesus,_ his _baby_ brother…

Shaking such sentimentalities from his head, Mycroft reached over and fairly tore the button down shirt open with such force that sent buttons bouncing across the tiles. Sherlock's pale torso was littered with cuts and bruises of varying severity, but none more prominent than the one just above his navel. Long and quite deep, if the blood soaking the top of his pants was anything to go by – and Mycroft did something that he had not found need for in an age. He _swore_.

Struggling from his pressed jacket, his pulse hammering because there was absolutely _too much blood_ and while he mentally took stock of the rest of his brother's injuries – Head wound, dislocated shoulder, broken ribs, severe laceration of the upper thigh – Mycroft pressed his jacket down on the wound and tried to ignore the pained wail that was very close to cracking the icy veneer that surrounded his heart.

'St- _op_ Myc – _please_...' Sherlock gasped, reaching out with a bloody hand and clutching at the older man's shirt.

'Easy, _easy_ brother,' he soothed, inwardly shocked at how easy it was to slip back into the protective big brother role. He used his free hand to brush the dark curls from Sherlock's brow while he kept consistent pressure against the gash in his stomach. 'The good doctor is on his way, although I think – despite the inevitable argument that will ensue – a hospital may be wholly necessary, brother mine.' Mycroft said gently, removing his hand from Sherlock's brow to fumble for his phone.

'N-no…John _only_ ,' Sherlock hissed, jaw clenching as he fought against the pain.

'Yes, I did think as much - at the very least, you may need the family clinic. This wound _is_ rather abysmal, ' He tries for aloof, but the tremor in his voice catches Sherlock's attention.

'M-Myc? You sound concerned – c-caring is not an advantage, remember?' The young man manages with a vicious smirk. He dials John, puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the floor before gripping Sherlock's face so hard, he hears he may do damage.

'You listen to me, you blasted, ignorant _fool_. You keep your eyes open and your wit sharp. If you die tonight, I shall never forgive you, do you hear me?' Mycroft hisses, pointedly ignore the irritating moisture in his eyes, because yes – his brother looks bad enough. Surprisingly enough, those angry eyes that hold so much resentment towards Mycroft Holmes, crinkle slightly at the sides.

'O-of _course_ , brother – it would be such a waste of a game if you outlived me, wouldn't it?'

The elder Holmes chuckled, because there was no heat in the words.

' _Mycroft? Mycroft! What the_ _ **hell**_ _is going on? How is he? Never mind – I'm nearly there. Called in a favour with Lestrade, he got the local force to pick me up as quickly as is safe. Just tell me he's alive!'_

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the smile on his lips spoke of fondness towards the doctor.

'Please be assured dear Watson – I am alive…awake, even – though how much longer that will last, I am unsure,' He managed, earning a relieved sigh from John.

' _Good, good. See that you behave for your brother – I'll be there in 20.'_

The call ended and Mycroft slid the phone away, pressing his hands once more against the open wound.

The action elicited another broken cry from his brother, and Mycroft didn't even try to stop the quiet litany of soothing words that started pouring from his mouth without permission.

Sherlock's impossibly long frame jerked and once those lids started fluttering, Mycroft eased the pressure.

'Brother? Eyes front, please,' He said firmly, though not unkindly.

It was of little use – the blood loss was taking a toll on the younger man, and Mycroft could do nothing but watch his younger brother fall into an unconsciousness he may not return from.

20 minutes…

That blasted Doctor better not be a second late…

* * *

 **TBC…**

 **Ok, so maybe not as difficult as I first thought, though still slightly OOC. There will be a part 2 companion to this chapter. Please let me know what you think!** _ **  
**_


	3. 3 - Caring is not an advantage - Part 2

_**A/N:**_ **Thank you, once again for your support in this! I really do hope you're enjoying it! Apologies for the delay, I have started back up at work and sadly, cannot write nearly as much as I'd like to – but I'll certainly try my best!**

 **Also, I have just noticed that this couldn't take place between TGG & ASiB – because they follow on from each other. So just ignore that and place it where you please. **

**THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES**

 **RATED: T**

 **CHARACTERS: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes and Doctor Watson**

 **WARNINGS: Mild to Moderate Violence, descriptive mentions of injury**

 **GENRE: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship & Family**

 _Set between The Great Game & A Scandal in Belgravia – it is a good thing that Mycroft decided to invest in a rather sophisticated surveillance system at 221B, or he may be too late in saving his younger brother's life…_

* * *

 **Caring is** _ **not**_ **an advantage – Part 2**

John Watson quickly glanced at his watch as the patrol car screeched to a stop outside of 221B Baker Street. It was 3:30 in the morning and thankfully, with the assistance of an officer quite adept at defensive driving, his estimation of 20 minutes had well and truly been met. John thanked the man distractedly and without pausing to ponder _why_ the front door was wide open, he simply stepped through and sprinted up the stairs.

His reaction to the mess was slightly less dignified than the elder Holmes. Dropping his bags, he stared, _horrified,_ at the unhealthily large brown stain in the beige carpet. Mouth dry, his dark blue gaze swept the rest of the room - his chest tightening further at the vomit, the tacky-red prints smeared the length of the hallway; the wall probably being the only thing holding Sherlock up at the time. He was stunned, s _hattered._

'Doctor Watson!' Mycroft bellowed from the bathroom, causing the Doctor to flinch. Because he had never heard the British Government sound so…utterly useless.

John took several shuddering breaths and closed his eyes for a second. He had to prepare himself for this – the man had plenty of experience dealing with one hysterical Holmes…two of them was going to be one for the records.

Numb legs took him on autopilot towards the bathroom. He could see the wedge of light spilling into the hallway, hear the splash of the basin tap – _who cares_ – and then he pushed the door open.

 _Fuck. Me._

A strangled sob broke free because he couldn't fix this. All the _red_ – it was entirely in the wrong place, stark against too-pale skin. And then, of course, there was Mycroft Holmes; shoulders trembling, kneeling uncaringly in the pool of scarlet as he pressed the crumpled material of his dinner jacket against his brother's gut. Sensing another presence, his head whipped around – eyes wild and red rimmed. The look of complete terror came as a shock and it broke his heart.

'Do _something_ ,' he begged.

He fucking _begged_.

John swallowed the lump in his throat. Sherlock needed a bloody hospital _hours_ ago, by the state of things. He hadn't done surgery since Afghanistan – and he was scared to death at the thought of having to attempt it on Sherlock…but if he didn't try, Sherlock would die. As in gone. Forever.

 _Not a chance in bloody hell._

'Ok, ok… _shit_. Mycroft, I need you to move aside please,' John urged gently, manoeuvring himself into the tight space between tangled limbs. The elder Holmes shuffled minutely and hesitantly allowed the Army Doctor to take over.

Watson kneeled between Sherlock's splayed legs and pressed two fingers against his carotid, feeling the rapid thrum against his skin.

'Sherlock?' He tapped his cheek gently, hoping for a response – but getting nothing. He was well and truly out for the count.

John took a deep breath, and another, before pulling the dinner jacket aside to check the wound. As soon as the pressure had been removed, blood welled to the surface and spilled out at an alarming rate.

' _Christ_ …Mycroft, I need your help…' No response. 'Mycroft, he's dying – I need you to be…' _what?_ What did John need him to be? Clinical? Uncaring?

This Mycroft was absolutely foreign to him, completely terrifying, and yet…John liked it. The doctor _liked_ it, because this was how an older sibling ought to act when his brother was hurt.

He tried a different approach. There was very little time to do this…home surgery, but he needed the elder Holmes to act a little more himself.

The Doctor turned away from Sherlock and slapped his brother. _Hard_.

The man flinched, blinked several times and nodded.

'Wh-' he started thickly, stopped and swallowed. 'What do you need, Doctor?'

John sighed in relief and turned back to his charge.

'I saw a pretty nifty looking kit in the living room. What's it got?' He asked, briefly eyeing the rest of Sherlock's injuries. Not life threatening – they could wait.

'Everything you may need. It's a surgical kit.' Mycroft replied, his voice falsely steady. 'I've sent out a list for the more… _difficult_ items. Plasma, IV fluids, Oxygen and more pain killers, but everything you'll need to sew him up is in the kit.'

John shook his head. 'You don't _understand_! I can't just 'sew him up'! He's bleeding internally – something's been nicked.'

Mycroft paled. 'Can you…can you do it?'

He hesitated… _Could he?_ Could he risk severe infection and potential exsanguination by performing complicated surgery on his Best Friend?

Either way, things were looking grim.

'Yes.' John found himself saying firmly. 'But not here. I need you to clear off the dining table, soak it with bleach and then rinse it off. There are towels in the linen press to dry the floor and table when you're done. Hurry Mycroft – I need this done in less than ten, if you please.'

The elder Holmes did not hesitate. John sighed, and as an afterthought reached up to turn the basin tap off. Sherlock must've been attempting to flush the wound before collapsing.

Sherlock shifted beneath him and to John's utter horror, pale eyes blinked open.

Dammit! He needed him _out_ for this.

'Hey there,' John greeted softly. 'You're going to be just fine.'

The younger man blinked at him owlishly.

'Myc…where is he? Is he…angry?' Sherlock gasped slowly.

'No, no. Of course not – you should see him. It's creepy!' John allowed himself a chuckle. 'Mycroft is cleaning up a bit. We're going to have a game of Operation, me and him.'

Sherlock frowned and his eyes slipped shut. 'C-can I play too?' he asked.

John felt the tears then. God, he hoped he could do this without killing him.

'Course you can. Just, have a rest and we'll start soon. Ok?'

There was no response. Out again – just as Mycroft reappeared.

'I'm done. You'll need help getting him out there.'

 _Indeed he would._

* * *

For someone who tended to neglect food on a regular basis, Sherlock was bloody _heavy_. Taking into consideration the unnaturally long limbs to go along with the dead weight meant that it took longer for the pair to get Sherlock situated on the sterilised table than John was comfortable with.

The Doctor was relieved to see, however, that Mycroft had the foresight to prepare everything required for the utter idiocy that he was about to embark on. If the man thought for a second that Sherlock would survive an Ambulance ride, John would have called it through – bugger the consequences.

An angry Sherlock was better than a dead one.

First things first – pain relief, and a hefty dose, just in case Sherlock woke during the surgery. He wasn't about to risk a heavy sedative at this stage, and it was just as risky giving him opiates – but if, _God forbid_ , if Sherlock were to die from this, John would much rather he be in as little pain as possible.

He washed his hands thoroughly and donned a pair of surgical gloves, noting silently that Mycroft had already done so.

This meant that the elder Holmes was willing to get his hands dirty in order to save his brother's life. John took a steadying breath and prepared a dose of Oxycodone, injecting it directly into the crook of Sherlock's elbow. They didn't have the time for fiddly cannulas at this stage.

Another breath – now came the bloody awful part. It was likely he would have to open the wound further to fix the internal damage, but it would depend on the severity.

He was about to ask Mycroft for a torch, but the elder Holmes was already at his side, shining a beam over the ragged cut.

John was sweating already. There was so much blood, it would be difficult to see anything – but he's seen worse and he's done worse, all in the bloody Middle-Eastern Desert. He could handle a little bit of kitchen table surgery. Hastily, he injected a local anaesthetic to the wound, but he was hesitant to continue.

'Ok. _Shit..._ c'mon John…' he muttered to himself, taking a deep breath and slipping two fingers into the ugly wound. Sherlock flinched and John froze, dark blue eyes flickering up to gauge Sherlock's level of consciousness.

Pale brow furrowed, Sherlock blinked slowly and John's heart near stopped.

'Impeccable fucking timing, you utter berk,' John muttered fondly, turning to Mycroft. 'Go to him. Keep him distracted and _calm._ '

'The torch, Doctor,' Mycroft pointed out and John just opened his mouth, allowing the elder Holmes to slip it between his teeth.

'Nnnnnnggghhhhh,' Sherlock whined, his pale face moist with sweat.

Mycroft, bless his pompous heart, brushed the damp curls from his brother's brow and didn't even flinch when Sherlock turned his head to press into Mycroft's stomach.

Noticing the affectionate display from the corner of his eye, John blushed as he probed the wound – feeling like an intruder.

'Don't be ridiculous, Doctor Watson,' Mycroft said softly, like he could read his thoughts. 'You have been more a brother to Sherlock than I have in recent times, regrettably.'

John felt only marginally better, as he leant closer to the ugly wound, eyes narrowed in concentration.

'Whaass' goin' on?' The patient slurred, rolling his head up and attempting to sit.

' _No!_ Shit, Sherlock – stay bloody still! Please mate?' John begged, his heart constricting at the panic in those sharp eyes.

'Wh-John?'

Incomplete sentences, confusion – this scenario was getting far worse than John anticipated, but he'd found the nick. Not even big enough to warrant a band aid, had it been on his finger – but intestines? They would have to monitor him carefully for infection.

'Sherlock, listen to me.' John began firmly, making eye contact with the young man who had somehow become the most important person in his life. 'I need you to tell me if you can feel _any_ of this, ok? You have a small cut on your intestine and I have to sew it, but I don't know how numb you are. I administered a local a couple of minutes ago…is it effective?'

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he hissed through clenched teeth. 'It _hurts…_ '

John nodded. 'Okay, okay. How much, on a scale of one to ten?'

The young man tried to choke out a response, but turned his head and vomited instead. John readied another dose of local.

'We need something stronger than Oxy.' He hissed to Mycroft, whom despite being covered in blood and now vomit; was muttering soothingly to his brother.

Another breath and another, John knew this would hurt _immensely,_ but the local had to be administered to the site he was about to stitch.

He spread the wound open and with steady hands, slipped the needle in.

Sherlock howled, his head thrown back as John depressed the plunger.

'Easy, brother, easy…' Mycroft soothed; his eyes suspiciously damp as he squeezed Sherlock's hand. The younger man was panting, whimpering and utterly distressed, but the elder Holmes continued to speak softly as Doctor Watson sewed two tiny, neat stitches using dissolvable thread.

'Almost done, Sherlock,' I soothed, patting a hip and giving him a tight smile as his eyes met mine.

'T-thank you, John,' he managed to reply hoarsely, before his gaze disappeared beneath fluttering lids.

 _Thank heavens for small mercies._

Mycroft sighed shakily as his brother lost consciousness, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

John began stitching the outer wound as the elder Holmes joined him.

'Anything I can do?' He asked softly, hands shaking minutely.

I nodded toward the gash in Sherlock's thigh, and moved slightly so Mycroft could access it.

'Still bleeding?' John asked, eyes not leaving his patient. His hands were steady and there was no sign of stress. Mycroft could not have asked for a better person to be tending to his sibling.

'No, it seems to have stopped. I don't think it's as bad as we initially thought,' the elder Holmes looked back to his brother's lax features, and there was a swell of emotion at innocence of his sleeping face.

Mycroft sighed again. 'William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you little _bastard_.' He said softly, hand resting on his sibling's knee. 'You will never know the depth of my love for you.'

John choked as he tied off the last stitch, rocking back and meeting Mycroft's eye. 'He's going to be alright, Myc. You know him; he has a flair for the dramatic.' There was silence for a moment. 'Also, _William?_ '

The elder Holmes allowed a small smile. 'Yes, that is his birth name; and quite a bit too dull for my brother. I am inclined to agree. Sherlock is anything but dull…now, let us get this mess cleaned up and make my brother comfortable.'

As they cleaned, John spoke once more, his trained eye never straying far from his patient.

'He's going to be insufferable once he recovers enough, isn't he?'

Mycroft's eyes sparkled with glee. 'Oh Doctor Watson, you have _no_ idea.'

* * *

Let it be known, that Doctor John Watson is quite a patient man…except when his patient is one William Sherlock Scott Holmes, Consulting Detective and self-proclaimed Sociopath. Who very well nearly killed himself _again_ because he was BORED.

John Watson very nearly _helped._

* * *

 **Yes, well – this took a while.**

 **I'm not sure how I feel about the kitchen table surgery, but I justified it in the end – I think. Anyway, let me know what you think!**


End file.
